Unseen clouds
race across the fields
their shadowy wisps
darken the skies.

Quickly colliding
bubbling, brewing
foaming, frothing
their sombre countenances
quiver with unshed anticipation.

Rolling, roiling, they rumble
silvering shards sparkle
heeding the silent pleas 
of the


“The storm doth walk the seashore humming a mournful tune”
– Emily Dickinson

darkening shadow
sits high on misting pane

his beckoning words thrumming on taut string
the tapping syllables within the tin can tring

lazy fingers soothe
a bitten round
on silken shoulder
its swell still ripe
from being plundered

pitted sands,
petals, dewy-sliced
lay pierced remains
of the thieving drunk

shelter hides
the sopping invitation
muting the call of lowing reverberations

eying bait dry asunder
lightning flailed
still unheeded thunder

he will await
to finally reach up and